


Forbidden Fruit

by ClementineStarling



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst and Porn, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, F/M, Femdom, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Sexucation, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Forbidden fruit taste the sweetest.
Thanks to Miranda's good intentions Abigail gains some sexual experience on their journey from Nassau to Charleston. Abigail is morally conflicted of course - her fantasies seem all so dirtybadwrong. Fortunately Domme!Miranda is rather committed to the "know no shame"-agenda and the well-being of her loved ones. Flint should be tied up more often and unsurprisingly Billy makes for a perfect boytoy. (Abigail POV)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lol, idk what happened here, just for the record: I distance myself from the part of my brain that came up with this. 
> 
> However, now that this fic eh... magically materialised itself from the depths of my unconscious, I suppose, some **warnings** are in order before I can release it into the wild.
> 
> First off: I did my best to give the ongoings a semblance of plausibility, but yeah, basically this is only porn with pretty questionable characterisations and probably totally anachronistic concepts of morality. (I borrowed massively from somewhat Victorian clichés, because angstiness is such fun.)  
> Second, **consent:** I gotta warn for references to rape (there is none featured in this fic, neither in the past nor in the present, but there were times when it was a pretty close call for Abigail I guess). Also for dubcon: It goes without saying that the situation on Flint's ship is less than ideal for giving informed and meaningful consent. Plus everyone drinks too much. Poor Billy also isn't asked much if he agrees to everything that's going on, but hey, he can take care of himself, can't he?  
>  And last but not least, underage: Abigail is what, 15 or 16 at the time this takes place? People wouldn't have worried about that in the 18th century, but yeah, we do, right?
> 
> Thanks to Jaq who listened patiently to my constant whining about this fic totally getting out of hand (it was supposed to be sth like 2k, not 14).

It's a small, oh such a small step from innocence to corruption. All it takes is a tiny push it would seem, the unintentional transgression of a boundary previously unnoticed, and the world is changed forever. 

Abigail thinks of Eve's fateful bite of the apple, thinks a lot about it in the days after she's been taken from the Good Fortune, and she comes to understand that there's at least one truth to the story: once you've known evil, you cannot forget it, you cannot return to your former state of mind, be as safe in your ignorance as you were. From the day you've first seen its true, undisguised form, you will recognise it anywhere, it will be etched to your memory like your own name. 

Though concerning the nature of said evil Abigail's findings are much more conflicting with common doctrines of the faith. When the brazen eyes and lewd gazes of Lowe's crew strip the armour of unknowing from her, she grasps at once the mendacity of the tale. Temptation, they taught her, priests and governesses alike, is a woman's offence, the first sin to spawn every other. But as she stands before these men like a hare before a pack of wolves, she recognises the lie for what it is. She does nothing to kindle their desire, she only breathes and prays and weeps, and yet it is writ large in their faces what it is they want, and she just _knows_ that's how it's been since the beginning of time. Men are beasts, animals, and once unshackled from civilisation, be it England or Eden, they behave accordingly. 

The realisation makes her stomach roil, but she steels herself against whatever violation they will choose to inflict upon her. In the end it turns out, she is fortunate enough to be spared, saved by the prospect of a generous ransom. 

For her soul it is too late though. The darkness has already taken root and begun to fester. At night, in her dreams, she runs with the wolves.  
__

Nights blur into days, dreams into waking. She loses herself in the dark, sleep the only refuge from the relentless hunger that's gnawing at her insides. It's impossible not to become like them under the circumstances, an animal, just teeth and claws and fear. Survival comes at a price, and civility seems such a small sacrifice.

Perhaps it's her mind playing tricks, perhaps she is too far gone to see the difference anymore, but with time the wolves begin to look human again. They hurt, they hope, they fear – they even love, not unlike herself, and no matter how often, how stubbornly she tells herself that what she perceives are only ghosts, glimpses of a past long gone, she cannot quite bring herself to believe it.

She commits the thought to paper to invoke the magic of writing, make it real by the power of the word, but even in her own hand, in stark black upon the white of the page, she finds it wanting. The argument has gained no more weight or persuasiveness, on the contrary, it appears like the fancy of a child unable to forgo the fairy tales they were told, and she isn't that child anymore. 

When they gave her ink and quill, they provided her with the means to recreate herself, discover among the rubble of nightmares and fears who she has become, and with every letter, every sentence Abigail learns she is no longer the girl who set forth on the journey across the sea but a creature entirely different from the child she used to be. She is not yet a woman either, no lady like her mother was, nor her father's dutiful daughter, but someone about to be shaped from the horrors she witnessed, and from the wonders too, a phoenix to rise from the ashes of her youth.

The feel of a quill in her hand, its scratch when she puts it to paper, the sight of ink-stains on her fingers – all so familiar, so utterly intimate and reassuring, she is inclined to forget where she is for a moment, believe herself to be merely daydreaming at her little desk back home. But no place on earth could be farther removed from the safety of her London room and the sheltered little life she led there than Captain Flint's ship. Here the monsters roam free, and the demons dance to the devil's tune. 

One of them stands out, not just for his towering height and magnificent physique. He's pretty, too, fair as Lucifer before the fall, golden-haired and blue-eyed, his nose straight as a Greek statue's, his lips a sensual curve that makes Abigail's heart beat faster. But there is more to him than beauty: he also seems gentle and kind, and what she feels when she sees him is nothing like the girlish infatuations she has experienced before. 

The notion of touching him doesn't make her blush like the clumsy compliments of George Allen or the awkward advances of Edward Bradley, the love letters and poems she received during her years in London, all these silly anecdotes she used to confide to her journal; it's not the uneasy warmth of embarrassment welling up inside her, but a keen, bright flash of desire. She's seen it often enough in others so recognise it now, the base appetite, the sinful longing. There's a burning sensation under her skin, and something inside her is melting like candle wax – her resolve maybe, or her innocence? – and she cannot even muster the good sense to be ashamed of it. 

Of course her captors, her hosts know. She is convinced they read her mind like an open book. It's impossible not to notice Captain Flint's amused smirk or the half-worried, half-disapproving look Lady Hamilton awards him for it.

Though it's not like she doesn't see them too. The three of them do share relatively close quarters after all, the curtains dividing the Great Cabin don't offer much privacy, and so it's hard to miss the way Captain Flint touches Lady Hamilton's cheek, so full of reverence, how gentle this hard, callused murderer's hand can be, how tender his lips as they brush against hers, and it does fill Abigail with a foolish longing – for someone so strong and fierce to hold her and protect her against the savagery of the world. 

But then she also sees how Miranda touches James in return, with such intimate knowledge, how her touch comes from the strength that keeps houses from collapsing and empires from falling, how he turns his face into her palm, as though to hide his shame and to seek forgiveness. This power Miranda holds over him isn't founded in violence, but simply in her superiority and his submission. He adores her, worships her, serves her, and she graciously allows it. 

Now this sight breeds quite another sort of craving, a much darker kind, and it heats her blood like the headiest of wines. She doesn't avert her eyes, when at night they think her fast asleep, and their gentle touch and tender kiss evolve in something else, when Captain Flint, guided by Lady Hamilton's hand, falls to his knees before her, when he pushes up her gown with these rough hands that held swords and cutlasses and pistols. His whisper is like a caress on Abigail's own skin, _please_ , he says, and it doesn't sound like him at all, low and breathless, it is a prayer and it is a plea – and Abigail realises she wants this for herself, or something like it at least.

While she watches the slender figure of Lady Hamilton lean back against the edge of the captain's desk, while she watches her stretch and arc and wrap her milk-white thighs around Flint's head, dragging him closer, she pictures herself in her place and a certain boatswain from Kensington kneeling between her legs, she can see it so vividly before her inner eye, his blue eyes wide with awe, the rosy lips slightly opened. What he would do to her, she can only imagine, but judging from Lady Hamilton's sighs and Captain Flint's groans, it has to be utterly exciting. 

Abigail closes her eyes and surrenders to the darkness behind her lids, to the sounds of the sea and the wind and the ship, to the low moans and strange noises of pleasure, her hands pressed into her lap, palms sweaty, fingers trembling, and she wonders how it would feel to have him, _Billy_ , own him like Lady Hamilton owns Captain Flint, while desire is pooling in her belly.

__

“You do like him, don't you?” Lady Hamilton says casually without looking up from her book. 

They sit on the quarter deck, like every afternoon Abigail has spent on this ship, reading, writing, sipping at watered-down wine, and Abigail has dared snatch a glimpse, just one quick little glance at the man, and promptly been found out.

“Beg your pardon,” she says, attempting her best to keep the treacherous blush from painting her face crimson. It doesn't help that she just pictured how utterly breathtaking he must look without a shred of cloth on his body. 

“Billy,” Lady Hamilton states with the same nonchalance, “Mr Manderly, the boatswain, you like him.”

Abigail opens her mouth to protest but Lady Hamilton's raised eyebrow is sufficient indication that she will have none of Abigail's prevarications, and so she admits to her foolishness instead, hoping a shy nod will be enough to prevent Lady Hamilton from pressing the issue further. 

But of course it isn't.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear,” Miranda Hamilton says with a sweet smile, reaching over to touch Abigail's arm in a gesture of reassurance, touch her with the same hand that reigns over the captain and thus, over this whole band of pirates. The hand that's allowed to cup Flint's face so intimately, to reduce the fearsome man to such desperate a creature –

“Love is a gift,” Lady Hamilton interrupts Abigail's musings, “Don't let people tell you otherwise.”

“But--” Abigail begins. But love is supposed to be pure, she wants to say. Untainted by the vile lust that springs up inside her every time she lays eyes on Mr Manderly. Back in London perhaps, before she embarked on this journey, when she hadn't known what she knows now, she would have felt a tenderness towards the man, free from the sinful desires of the flesh, just sympathy and affection. But now she's wandered too far on the road to hell to revert to the attitudes of a good Christian girl at a moment's notice. She sincerely hopes the return to her father's house will eventually restore her virtue. Since she has only sinned in thought, not in deed, it might not yet be too late for redemption.

Lady Hamilton looks at her, a frown on her beautiful features. “What is it you fear, Abigail? Surely you must believe by now that we spoke nothing but the truth when we promised, we would let no harm come to you. But know that we do not judge you either. If you want to talk about what it was, Ned Lowe and his men did to you, to unburden you from the secret. It was not your fault. Whatever they did, whatever they made you do, you must not feel guilty...”

“I don't.” The words erupt from her mouth before she can stop them. “I mean, forgive me, they did not harm a single hair on my head, so there is nothing I could feel guilty for. I'm still...” She stops. What is she supposed to say? Innocent? Hardly! A virgin? Only in the technical sense. For which she is glad, of course, but nevertheless she doesn't feel pure anymore. Not when she is so utterly tainted by the pirate's depravity, not least by Lady Hamilton's own wickedness.

Miranda's hand still lies on Abigail's arm, elegant fingers, stroking and rubbing absent-mindedly to soothe her distress. Abigail swallows.

“So what is it then that worries you?” Lady Hamilton asks. 

Without meaning to Abigail's eyes flick into Billy's direction. 

Lady Hamilton follows her gaze. “I do believe he reciprocates your feelings,” she says, gently.

Abigail tears her eyes away from him and returns her attention to Miranda Hamilton, who tells her with a somewhat conspiratorial smile: “I've seen him stealing glances at you whenever you're not looking.”

A happy, fluttering excitement unfolds in Abigail's stomach, yet she tries her best to suppress it. “All the more reason not to pursue this folly,” she says. “If everything goes well, I shall be back at my father's house in a few days, and even if he agreed to your plan of a general pardon, I doubt he would consider a pirate a matching suitor for his only daughter. This means that once I set foot ashore I most likely shall never see Mr Manderly again in all my life.” Even now, as she refuses to give into her feelings, the notion appears nigh unbearable.

“So would you rather regret not having followed your heart?” Lady Hamilton inquires. “Never having felt the warmth of his fingers around yours or heard the endearments he would whisper in your ear?”

The thought is no less painful, and yet, or perhaps for that very reason, Abigail feels compelled to lie: “I would not know of such things, so I can hardly miss them.” It sounds brusque and untruthful, even to her own ears.

“But you must have had admirers in London, boys who were anxious to win your favour, men showering you in compliments, you've inherited your mother's beauty, certainly that didn't go unnoticed--” Lady Hamilton stops talking as if some distant memory has given her pause. She continues with a small, strange smile. “Or perhaps you had a special friend whom you held dear above everyone else, another girl with whom you shared all your secrets?”

It does take a moment for Abigail to comprehend the implications of Lady Hamilton's words, but once she has grasped their meaning, she can't help the colour rising to her cheeks. The hand on her forearm has become a brand, searing. It takes all her self-control not to withdraw from Miranda's touch, burning with innuendo.

“No,” she stutters, “neither, I mean, I... there were George and Edward, and Annie, my dearest friend in all the world, but we were merely children, we didn't know about...”

“Carnal desires?” Lady Hamilton suggests, and, at Abigail's nod, continues: “So you never wondered why exactly all the pious people, the moralisers and philistines, makes such a great ado about the matter? Did you never sneak into the library, looking for one of _those_ books, you knew must be hidden _somewhere_ on the shelves? Really, Abigail, I can scarcely believe it.” She laughs, a benevolent, good-natured little laugh, which in part even resembles a girlish giggle, so Abigail doesn't feel too offended by this display of amusement about her ignorance.

“You should use the remainder of your sojourn on this ship to make up for this unforgivable gap in your education,” Lady Hamilton says, still smiling with amusement, and before Abigail can fully envision the possible implications of her proposition, she adds, “James has the most splendid selection of books in his little library. I'm sure he would be delighted to lend you some of the more instructive volumes.”

And with this she releases Abigail from the awkward examination and returns her attention to her book, leaving Abigail to her own devices. 

The sinking sun casts its golden light over the main deck where the men are still at work, and Abigail marvels at the way it reflects off tanned skin and taut muscle. 

__

Lady Hamilton makes good on her promise and, as soon as they're back in the captain's cabin after dinner, hands her a small pile of books. 

To her own surprise, Abigail adds a sceptic note to her expression of gratitude. “I must admit that I do harbour some doubt as to whether these matters can be learned from the pages of a book,” she says and wonders if she imagines Lady Hamilton's face to be illuminated by a queer sense of triumph. 

“I dare say you're right”, Miranda concedes, “But what could possibly be done about the issue? I suppose theoretical knowledge is better than none. And I can only offer you my advice. If you should come across any question requiring further explanation, pray, don't hesitate to ask.” 

“You are too kind.” With a bashful smile Abigail takes up the first book, a slim volume bound in soft, scarlet leather. She runs her fingers over the cover as if to pet it before she opens the it. It's more pleasing to touch than any book should have the right to be. 

For some strange reason the sensation lends her some courage. “I may not have been entirely truthful with you,” she murmurs, half to herself. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Lady Hamilton leaning back in her seat to listen. “I'm not as innocent as I would have you believe,” she goes on. “I'm... I have thoughts, fancies.” 

“Regarding Mr Manderly?” 

Abigail notices for the first time that Lady Hamilton's eyes are as brown as Abigail's own. It is somehow comforting. She wasn't sure about it until that very moment, but now she is: she wants to confess all her sins and trespasses, be rid of the secrets and guilt. 

“Yes and no, I...” She rummages for words, but to no avail. She can feel her own heart beat in the tips of her fingers as though it were the book that had a pulse. “I have had impure thoughts ever since I caught a first glimpse of unconcealed lust and lewdness, and now I'm afraid Mr Manderly just serves as the canvas on which my depraved mind paints its sinful fabrications.”

“You should not be too hard on yourself, Abigail. What you endured in the past weeks was bound to change your conception of the world, perhaps even unsettle your attitudes towards morality. And as for Mr Manderly – I don't see how you would wrong him by acknowledging that he's a fine looking lad, and a good man, too.”

“But the things I imagine about him,” Abigail whispers, “surely no good Christian could condone such thoughts.”

Lady Hamilton gives her a fond smile. “What are these awful fancies about then?” she asks, clearly amused. When she sees Abigail turning bright red and biting her lip instead of an answer, she reminds her: “You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. You know that, right?” 

And not for the first time since she has been rescued from the clutches of Captain Vane does Abigail wonder what distant event or secret connection has earned her such an affectionate treatment from a near-stranger. “No, I want to, I just don't know where to begin.”

“Maybe it would be easier for you if I told you something utterly immoral about myself first?” Lady Hamilton suggests. When Abigail nods, relieved, to have delayed the moment of truth, Miranda produces two glasses and a bottle and pours them some wine to soothe the nerves.

“When I was your age,” Lady Hamilton begins, “I had a close friend, the best friend one could wish for. She was brilliant and gorgeous and witty, too. We were resolved to conquer the world together. You know how utterly boundless dreams can be sometimes, especially when one is young.” She shakes her head mild amusement and continues: “More often than not we slept in the same bed, hands tangled into each other as though not to lose ourselves on our travels through Morpheus' realm. And we had this little ritual we celebrated every night before turning in – we would brush each other's hair and recite poetry. There was this one evening, I remember it as if it was yesterday, a day in early autumn we had spend wandering in the park among the colouring trees, marvelling at the golds and reds of the leaves. We sat in front of the fireplace as usually that night, tired, content, and I was running the brush through my friend's raven hair, when she introduced me to her own translation of Sappho's _Ode to Aphrodite_. It was the most beautiful piece of poetry I had ever heard. – I did tell you she was bright, talented! There were few people who had her gift for words, and even less who matched her understanding of the old languages – But the most wonderful thing about the poem wasn't her choice of words or the melody of her voice. It was that I finally realised what it was I felt about her. It wasn't just admiration or the fondness for a sister that made my heart almost burst with joy, it was love. Simple as that. And when we kissed for the first time, oh, how could I even describe the feeling? It was such a marvel! I don't know what my life would have been without that kiss. It opened a door for me, a path to a new perception of myself. I suddenly realised to be the owner of a body that could experience the most delightful sensations, and even more remarkable, how wonderful it was to share these sensations with someone I loved.”

The memory must be bitter-sweet, judging from Lady Hamilton's smile. Before Abigail's inner eye two girls embrace, their long, dark locks of hair entangling just like their limbs, and their mouth are touching, brushing, opening against each other.

The cabin suddenly seems even more stifling than before. 

“What happened to her, your friend?” Abigail asks to conceal her abashment.

“The fate that awaits most women, she was married to a suitor her father deemed worthy of his daughter. And indeed he was as good a match for her as any man could have been, noble and kind and literate, but marriage rarely frees a woman from the bondage of social obligations, on the contrary, it imprisons her, dulls her intellect and dims her beauty. She was no rare exception to that rule.”

“So you never saw each other again?”

“Oh no, silly, of course we did. But it was different after we were married, we weren't carefree girls anymore, but wives, ladies. We could hardly share a bed at night anymore. And if we hadn't acted on our feelings before, we probably would never have. Which I know I would have regretted for the rest of my life.”

Abigail ponders on this for a moment, staring into her wine. Now she fully understands the meaning behind Lady Hamilton's earlier inquiry about a _special friend_ , and she finds herself not in the least scandalised, quite the opposite. A fact, she should, in itself, regard as alarming. Has her moral compass been broken so utterly by her voyage to the New World that she doesn't deem such talks of sin not merely acceptable but even enticing? 

“Your words make me wish I had had such a companion. It sounds so much easier to be in love with a woman,” Abigail sighs. “Men seem so... savage.” She realises too late that Lady Hamilton might find this offensive, an insult of her late husband and Captain Flint, and she claps her hand over her mouth in mortification, but Miranda only laughs.

“They can be absolutely bestial, can't they?” she says. “Not all of them are of course, but most men need a strong hand not to get silly ideas, delusions of grandeur.” 

Abigail still has her hand over her mouth, this time to stifle an incredulous giggle at Lady Hamilton's insinuation, when there is a knock on the door.

Miranda straightens in her seat. “Yes?” she says, every bit her usual regal self.

It is Billy of all people, who puts his head around the door. His gaze swivels from Lady Hamilton to Abigail and back. It's too dark to see properly, but Abigail suspects he is blushing. After that one shy glance he awards her, he keeps his eyes trained on Lady Hamilton.  
“Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Barlow, Miss Ashe. I'm looking for the captain.” 

“I'm afraid I can't help you with your quest. He isn't here and I haven't the slightest inkling as to where he might to be found. Last time I saw him was at dinner, when he was engaged in a rather animated conversation with the sailing master.” 

Billy nods, careful not to accidentally glance into Abigail's direction, and is about to withdraw his head from the gap in the door with another apology, when Lady Hamilton stops him: “Billy?” she asks, and he pauses, blinks, waits for what she may want of him. “Would it be too bold to ask you for a favour?

This time, Abigail notices, he can't suppress the urge to look at her, just for a second, but still. 

“No, of course not, Ma'am,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“James told me we have a store of melons on board. Maybe you would be so kind as to get us one from the hold after you've attended to your business with the captain?”

“A melon?” Billy echoes, puzzled. Whatever it was he expected, it wasn't to be sent to fetch fruit. But he regains his composure quickly. “Of course,” he says and retreats, still with a slightly confused expression, and this time Lady Hamilton doesn't stop him.

“A melon?” Abigail asks when he's gone. 

“You do like melons, don't you? I find them absolutely delicious,” Lady Hamilton says cheerfully. “Also, I couldn't think of a better assignment on such short notice. It seems harmless enough, don't you think? It's not as though I asked for a dragon's head. And it should give us more than enough time to come up with a strategy.”

“A strategy?” Abigail repeats.

“For his seduction,” Lady Hamilton explains, raising her glass in a toast.

__

In comparison to the rest of the ship, the overcrowded mess deck, the narrow stairs and low ceilings, the captain's Great Cabin appears indeed great, as large as a ballroom and nearly as civilised. With its high windows and comfortable chairs, the book shelves and the huge desk it almost could be a normal study. If you forgot for a moment that just outside the door the cannons of the gun deck are lined up in a macabre guard of honour, that is. And if it weren't for the hammocks strung up a the sides and the curtains used to divide the room to provide at least a semblance of privacy.

Abigail wonders whether she could find a place to hide somewhere in the cabin, behind a chest or a drawer perhaps, like a little mouse, just disappear and escape from the humiliation that surely awaits her. But she isn't a rodent, she can't physically slip away, so she takes the only refuge available: she drinks.

The wine is sweet and sharp, potent with the rum added to stabilise it, and it doesn't take long until it unfolds its effect. She feels comforted, encouraged. So brave as to steal a glance at Lady Hamilton's décolletage – how deliciously her bosom swells with every breath she takes, how tempting the fine bones in her neck strain against the skin. Abigail would love to press her lips against that flesh. She doesn't even know where that wish comes from, but now it suddenly feels as though she never wanted anything else in her life.

“Would you tell me more about your friend?” she asks instead of giving in to her fancies and lunging forwards to taste the delicate skin.

Lady Hamilton rolls the stem of her glass between her fingers, causing the wine slosh about in the bowl, leaving oily red stains on the crystal. “What is it that you want to know, Abigail?” 

Abigail clears her throat. “That kiss, was it your first?”

“Oh no, it wasn't. I had kissed others before. Boys. It seemed, I don't know, I wouldn't say more natural, but more obvious maybe?”

Abigail nods. It definitely seems more obvious to kiss a man. Only, since today, she isn't so sure about that anymore. 

“With men, well, it's complicated. If you're to enter into any sort of romantic entanglement with them, you have to be able to count on their discretion, and on their manners, too. And above all else their capacity for self-control, and there's the rub.” Lady Hamilton shakes her head in half-humorous exasperation. “Most of them simply can't help themselves. As you said earlier, they're savages.”

Abigail remembers all the leers and impertinent remarks she received over the last weeks, but also small, discourteous incidents with George and Edward she'd almost forgotten about, and she can't but agree. 

“So how does it feel, to kiss a woman?” Abigail asks, the foolish bravery of wine coursing through her veins. “Is it very different from kissing a man?”

“It's hard to explain,” Lady Hamilton says, raising the wine glass to her lips. “It's something one must experience rather than learn from theory, I suppose.”

A draft must have slipped through a crack somewhere, making the candle flames flicker as Abigail summons up all her courage. “Would you...” she begins. “Would you care to show me?”

Her palms are clammy when Lady Hamilton takes the glass from her, pries it gently from her numb fingers, and sets it on the table. She looks concerned, serious as she seeks Abigail's gaze. “Are you sure about this?”

Abigail bites her lip. When she set out on this path, she merely thought about her infatuation with Billy, and how he would deem her a silly little girl, who knew nothing of the world, and worse, of love, unless she learned something about it first. But now, now she wants this, truly, honestly, with every fibre of her being. She wants it with the courage of alcohol and the bravery of desire and also the wantonness of budding love, and she nods, and then--

Then she's being kissed.

She forgets to breathe. Lady Hamilton's fingers cradle her face, feathery light, her touch barely palpable as though she was just a memory herself, and then her lips brush against Abigail's, no less gently. Not in all her life could she have imagined how it would feel and taste and oh, she understands now how it cannot be described, too wonderful is the sensation, too delicious. The rapturous thrum of her heart appears so wild in light of Miranda's petal-tenderness, the keen tug in her belly so base when compared to the softness of Lady Hamilton's mouth, the sweetness of her tongue. Abigail has been starved for this and she never knew it. And so she returns the kiss, ardently, hungrier with every moment that passes, until at last Lady Hamilton literally has to break away from her embrace with soft power and a low chuckle.

“Darling, don't forget to breathe,” she says and utterly unflustered takes a sip wine while Abigail struggles to catch her breath. 

“That was marvellous,” Abigail says, still panting. She is so alight with sensations, she can positively feel them shining through her skin from within. Her whole body is tingling.

Lady Hamilton gives her a benevolent smile. “Oh Abigail, my sweet, this was just the beginning. There is still so much more to discover.”

“Will you show me?” Abigail can't hardly wait to explore these unknown lands of pleasure, that seem to hold such marvellous sights and unknown bliss.

“Patience, my dear, we don't want to rush into this, and also--”

Conveniently at this very moment there is another knock at the door. 

__

Even in the generous surrounding of the captain's cabin, Billy appears impossibly tall. He stoops a little, more from habit than necessity – the ceiling would be high enough for him to stand upright – which makes him seem, well, not entirely harmless perhaps, but good-natured and almost _docile_. 

Abigail feels an exuberant amusement bubble up inside her at the word and the images it invokes, and she bites her lip and lowers her gaze for a moment.

Billy for all his physical strength and striking figure, seems to share her nervousness. His eyes, these incredibly blue eyes, flicker back and forth between Miranda Hamilton and her, undecided where to settle without being rude.

It dawns on Abigail what they, or – since Lady Hamilton is inexplicably unruffled by all that's transpired between them – at least what _she_ must look like: her cheeks glow, her lips sting with the memory of a kiss that's grown all too passionate, her eyes shine with a feverish passion. Abigail doesn't feel composed at all, but if Billy has noticed something is amiss, he's gentleman enough not to show it.

“I've got your melon,” he says, and indeed he carries it in his hand like any other person would carry an apple, his huge fingers easily strong enough to clasp the large, yellow fruit in a casual sprawl. It's not just the mere display of strength, that captivates Abigail's attention. The grasp he has on the melon also accentuates the bulging muscles of his arms most favourable; they strain impressively against the rolled up sleeve of his dark-green shirt. The colour suits him, Abigail thinks absent-mindedly before glancing up at his face.

How odd it is for a fearsome pirate to have such boyish good looks, such a sweet smile and guileless eyes. He bows a little, presenting the melon on the palm of his hand as though it were a gift.

Abigail has never had melon before and, mind slightly addled by drink, she dreads now what tasting it might imply. It could lead to unforeseeable consequences after all, further knowledge of good and evil perhaps, the expulsion from paradise, or at least a fall from innocence. Not that she _really_ believed such tales to come true, and yet she can't quite shake off an awful sense of foreboding. But the disquiet is quickly dispersed by the realisation that, in the given scenario, Lady Hamilton would be the snake, which means the part of Eve would fall to Billy. It's such an amusing notion, it is hard not to give into the urge to giggle, but as inebriated Abigail is, she still remembers her manners. Instead of bursting into laughter she beams at Billy whose smile widens in response. He does look like an angel when he loses his constant frown, Abigail thinks.

“Would you mind cutting it open for us?” Lady Hamilton asks, gesturing at the melon. “It appears we lack the necessary tools for such an endeavour.”

Billy tears his eyes away from Abigail with some difficulty. “No, of course not,” he says, drawing the dagger from his belt – _Pirate!_ Abigail's mind most helpfully interjects, as if she ever could forget about that – wipes it clean on the fabric of his shirt – _was there, maybe, still blood on it?_ – then slides it deep into the fruit. The long blade cuts through it as if it were butter, a fact Abigail finds enticing and disturbing in equal measure. There is something sensual about the way the steel destroys the integrity of the melon, pushes through the hard skin towards the juicy flesh, dissects it into convenient slices. Such symbolism for ruin, how could she not be alarmed? But then, another question presents itself: On what grounds could she refuse a melon slice without insulting her hosts? It's just fruit, isn't it? 

Billy's eyes rest eagerly on her when she reaches out and slowly, hesitantly picks the melon slice from his hand, with curious interest he watches how she lifts it to her lips and pops it into her mouth. The lush, sugary taste explodes on her tongue in such an overwhelming sweetness she can't suppress a low moan, and Billy unconsciously licks his lips in response. She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and there is nothing she would do rather than lean forwards and seal her mouth to his, just as Lady Hamilton taught her mere minutes ago.

“Would you do us the honour to stay for a glass of wine, Billy?” Lady Hamilton ask, breaking the spell.

“I don't think the captain would approve of me being in his quarters, Ma'am,” he says, straightening himself as he takes a step back. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

“Oh, don't worry about James! I promise to assume all responsibility if he should object to your presence here. I do respect that running this ship is his business and his authority as captain can't be put into question, but since he allowed me to stay here, in his cabin, as his guest, I would think to be within my right to invite you for a drink if I so please. It's not as though there was something amoral about it, wouldn't you agree?”

Billy shakes his head. “No, of course not, but...”

“See,” Lady Hamilton interrupts him, “you don't have to make further excuses, it's decided. And I'm sure, Miss Abigail would love to have you stay, too, wouldn't you dear?” 

Abigail's affirmation settles the matter and Billy lets himself slump on the stool Lady Hamilton offers him. She pours Billy a generous amount of the Madeira they've been drinking and hands him the glass. Billy takes it, yet instead of setting it to his lips to drink, turns it gingerly between his large fingers, as though afraid to break it. 

“Now, don't worry, it's not poisoned,” Lady Hamilton jokes. She reaches for Abigail's glass and raises it. “To the future and a favourable outcome of our endeavour.” They both drink, and when Billy just nips at his wine, she urges him on: “Drink up, drink up. You've got quite a bit catching up to do. We've been drinking for the better part of an hour now, haven't we, Abigail?”

“I don't think it would be seemly to get drunk in the presence of two ladies,” Billy protests, but Lady Hamilton won't have any of it. 

“Nonsense,” she says, “it's not as though we're saints.” She refills Abigail's glass and hands it back to her, then waits for Billy to finish his wine, so she can pour him another glass. “Actually, before you arrived, I was just recounting the tale of my first love to Abigail,” she says while Billy takes another sip of his wine. 

Abigail blushes a little at the memory of how exactly this recount happened, but Billy again doesn't seem to notice. This time it is because he looks – a bit incredulously maybe in the face of such unceremonious a transition to a rather intimate topic – at Lady Hamilton who appears not in the least flustered. On the contrary, she continues in the most cheerful manner: “So Billy, a handsome lad like yourself certainly has to tell a story or two on the subject of love, am I right?”

Billy almost chokes on his drink. “No, Ma'am, I can't say I have.”

“So you have no sweetheart waiting for you in some distant harbour? A wife perhaps?”  
Billy just shakes his head, but Lady Hamilton won't let him off so easily.  
“At least there must be a girl you adore,” she says.

Billy's eyes dart to Abigail, just for a second, but long enough for both women to notice.  
Abigail's insides turn all warm, her skin prickling with new, unfamiliar excitement.

“You see,” Lady Hamilton says, pretending not to have observed a thing, “I am a firm believer in the power of love. I think it does help us become a better person, perhaps the best person we can be under the given circumstances. Love lets us forgo our selfishness, it gives us strength, makes us generous and kind and well, sometimes foolish too, but overall, I dare say, it would be very sad to spend one's life without the wonders and comforts of a romantic relationship.”

Whatever Abigail expected to happen next, whatever filthy, sinful fancy her mind provided her with, it isn't the harmless, rather philosophical discourse Lady Hamilton delivers about fondness and affection and all the aspects of love that seem rather tame in comparison to sharp pangs of arousal and the mindless hunger of desire, Abigail has become acquainted with earlier, and she realises she is growing impatient. She longs to touch Billy, or to be pulled into another kiss by Lady Hamilton, something to abate the hunger that's come to dwell in her belly, a wordless want and need that itches and squirms. 

Lady Hamilton doesn't show the slightest inclination to move past what can be considered polite conversation. Surely not everyone would consider her choice of topic appropriate for the ears of a young girl, but what she tells them is hardly lewd or sinful. Abigail can't help but notice that her approach does achieve the desired effect however: After a while the atmosphere becomes more relaxed, here and there all of them share a laugh about some joke or droll anecdote, and at last even Billy seems almost at ease.

It is already late when the appearance of the captain puts an end to their merry little gathering. Billy excuses himself swiftly, as not to get in the middle of an argument, it seems, but Flint merely raises an eyebrow at Lady Hamilton, who whispers something, Abigail can't make out, and thus, just as she predicted, the matter is settled. 

Soon after that, exhaustion demands its tribute and Abigail crawls into her hammock to promptly fall into a deep, wine-induced slumber.  
__

She wakes hours later to the wan light of dawn and a considerable hangover. Her mouth feels fuzzy, her throat burns, and even the dim twilight hurts her eyes. Her first instinct is to get back to sleep, the second to have a sip of water first, and she's about to get up to fetch some, when she hears it: the laboured breathing, ragged draws of breath, and the soft but unmistakable slap of flesh upon flesh. 

Abigail freezes. Apparently no one bothered to draw the curtains the night before and apart from the thin sheet, spread over her hammock to provide her with some extra privacy, there is nothing to obscure the sight of what's going on just a few paces away. 

Both her hosts abandoned most of their clothing – they wear naught but their shirt respectively shift. Captain Flint is seated on his armchair behind his desk, or rather, as Abigail comes to understand after a second glance, he is _tied_ to it with long straps of vividly blue silk. His eyes are covered by a blind-fold, which leaves just enough of his face uncovered to perfectly highlight an expression of such tremendous, sheer unbearable pleasure, its sight hits Abigail like a physical blow, a sharp, lurid flash of heat deep within her. It nearly hurts how keenly her insides tighten and clench with sudden arousal, and for a moment she feels paralysed, too weak to move. 

Lady Hamilton, who is perched on the captain's lap, moves, just the tiniest bit, though constantly, relentlessly, like waves lapping at the shore. She talks to him under her breath, her tone too low for Abigail to hear, but she must tell him things that excite him even further, make him gasp and tremble and shake under her while she continues the slow rocking motion of her hips.

Again Abigail can't see what they are doing, how exactly they are joined, but her body comes up with an explanation of its own. She feels how she grows wet, how her sex throbs impatiently with awakening desire. Mysteriously she _knows_ what it wants her to do, how it wants to be touched, there, down below, in that sinful place, she's been taught to abhor, and yet. 

Yet she can't compel her hands not to wander there, press against herself through the fabric of her skirts, though all she achieves is to heighten the sensation of neglect, of need for something she hasn't tasted yet, and still craves so desperately.

She watches how Lady Hamilton grinds herself against the captain's body, lithe, flexible as the blade of a rapier against his stone form, and she wonders if perhaps their coupling accidentally created a spark that set her ablaze. The lust burns inside her like hell fire, unquenchable by the clumsy attempts of her fingers, and so all she can do is stare and stare and stare until her eyes water and Flint is clutching the arm rests of his chair so hard his knuckles shine white through the skin and Lady Hamilton sighs, louder and louder, a crescendo of moans, and then at last she goes still on top of him. 

Captain Flint leans his head against her chest, willing his tense body to be calm, and it's only when she whispers, _now you may_ , that he bucks under her, like an animal in its death throes, once, twice, three times. And then his mouth falls open and a sound comes out, so strange and desperate, it tugs at Abigail with such ferocity, a gasp of surprise must have escaped her, for Lady Hamilton turns and looks straight at her.

Abigail claps her hands over her face in such terrible embarrassment, she would rather have the ground open up and swallow her whole than ever lay eyes on Miranda again. She doesn't move, just lies there, praying it was just a dream, hoping and praying, even as bare feet are padding closer, and a chair is pulled up beside her hammock and someone settles on it, quietly as a ghost.

“Don't be ashamed, Abigail,” Miranda whispers. “There is no cause for shame.” And gently, oh so gently she puts her own hands over Abigail's and pulls them away from her face.

There is so much softness in her gaze, so much love, tears spring up in Abigail's eyes and when Lady Hamilton asks “Will you let me show you?”, voice gentle as calm water, Abigail simply sinks back into her hammock and allows Lady Hamilton's hands to push up her skirts, glide tenderly up her thighs, and her mouth to cover her lips, while she touches her _there_ , where she needs it the most, with her clever, clever fingers, and soon Abigail knows nothing but the maddening circles Miranda draws onto her skin, the wonderful pressure and friction, and the sudden roughness of air in her lungs.

__

When Abigail wakes the second time that day, Lady Hamilton is quick to quell all notions of shame or embarrassment. She fondly takes her hand and presses a loving, open-mouthed kiss on her lips, before she helps her dress and ushers her to their usual spot on the quarter deck. 

It is a fine morning, the air is clear and the sky of such a bright blue, Abigail can hardly believe it's not a painting she's looking at. The sea is calm and the wind just strong enough to let them make good progress. Lady Hamilton, _Miranda_ insists on Abigail having at least a light breakfast, to keep up her strength, as she says, regardless Abigail's claim to suffer from a mysterious lack of appetite. Indeed, she can't stand the idea of food, her stomach is too upset by a whole array of emotions, not to forget the wine, to be susceptible to nourishment. But in the end she concedes to have at least a few slices of melon and some cheese.

To face Captain Flint, after the events of last night, is a lot more embarrassing than being confronted with Lady Hamilton. Inexplicably, having seen him in such an intimate moment makes the man appear even more fearsome, as though his display of vulnerability at the hands of Lady Hamilton must be compensated by an ungovernable hardness in matters of daily life. His face is impassive, there isn't any indication it's not carved from stone, and this time, when she looks at him it is fear not desire that makes Abigail's heart beat faster. Though on closer inspection she realises she has lost all direction in that regard. Perhaps dread sparks some queer sense of arousal and perhaps arousal leads to some queer sense of dread. She can't be sure anymore. However it is, she tries not to dwell on it, especially not on the part about desire, and she almost succeeds with the attempt – until Billy enters the stage of her little drama.

Now that she's had at least a taste of the carnal pleasures, she can think of little else than having Billy touch her with those large, rough fingers, how good they must feel, and how breathtakingly pretty his face would be at the pinnacle of bliss. Needless to say that within the context of her thoughts and recent events Billy's entirely harmless inquiry, whether Miss Abigail has had a pleasant and restful night, loses all semblance of innocence and has her blushing so furiously, even Captain Flint abandons his stony expression for an amused smirk, which Abigail finds no less unsettling than his impassive stares.

After that the day runs its usual course. Everyone of the crew goes about their business and Lady Hamilton dedicates her full attention to the book she is reading, so Abigail has all the time in the world to muse about yesterday's occurrences and the possibilities that lie ahead. Her glances at Billy have become bolder, brazen even, as she feasts her eyes on his broad shoulders and slim hips, the shapely form of his legs, the impressing strength of his arms, so brazen some of the men take notice. They start to joke about it, punch Billy jovially in the side or pat him on the back, and if only yesterday this would have made her blush and avert her gaze, now she holds her head high and returns their stares unabashedly, which earns her a proud smile from Miranda and a confused look from Billy.

Abigail is a quick learner and she understood that to be a lady of Miranda Hamilton's stature means to behave like a queen. For to a queen do not apply the same rules as for common people, she can do as she will without having to worry about appearing too forward or even impertinent. One cannot govern as long as one bothers about the opinion of one's subjects. It's a realisation that awards her more courage than any amount of wine.

“Will you join us for another drink after dinner?” she asks later that day when Billy passes her on his way back to the main deck after a consultation with the captain, and Billy, slightly taken aback by the bluntness of her invitation, just nods and mutters something about it being an honour – as long as the captain were not opposed of course – and Abigail revels in her newly found power and self-confidence.  
__

In the evening Flint is curiously absent from his own cabin again. Abigail suspects Lady Hamilton to have had a hand in this lucky coincidence, but it's not as though she feels like complaining about it. In preparation of whatever it is exactly that she has in mind, Miranda insists on making themselves more comfortable. They take off their shoes, loosen their corsets, they even rearrange a corner of the room into an improvised boudoir of oriental sensuality by rolling out a thick, cosy carpet and adding a selection of large cushions as well as some lanterns of coloured glass and elaborate metal-work. 

“I will read you a story from One Thousand and One Nights,” Lady Hamilton announces once they are done and Billy has joined them on their make-shift divan. They sit cross-legged and bare-foot, almost huddled together. Abigail doesn't think she has been so close to other people since her early childhood. It is exciting in itself, but also oddly comforting. 

Billy pours the wine while Miranda opens her book, and soon all three are completely immersed in the story of Shahrazad and her tales. And while these tales themselves are utterly captivating, Abigail finds herself anxious to learn of Shahrazad's fate and her relations with King Shahriyar, who in her imagination wears Captain Flint's face, while the clever Shahrazad looks almost exactly like Lady Hamilton. She fancies herself to be her younger sister Dunyazad, sitting by the bed when the king takes her sister, night after night, watching, breathless and afraid, yet somehow also aroused. 

Billy meanwhile, for want of other characters, serves as Shah Zaman, the king's brother, which, Abigail thinks, is a good enough role for him. He too listens, mesmerised, the glass wine in his hand almost forgotten, and in the face of his abandon, the near-innocent expression of curiosity on his handsome features, Abigail wishes she could just give into the impulse to crawl closer, into his arms and lean against his wide chest, seeking refuge from the cruelties of the world, fictional and real.

More than an hour must have passed when Lady Hamilton finally stops reading. Her voice has begun to sound hoarse a good while ago and now, upon emptying her glass, she declares the need for a break and, every bit as urgently, more wine. “I asked for couple of bottles to be left next to the stairs leading down to the mess deck,” she says.

Billy offers to get them for her but Lady Hamilton blankly refuses. “It's not as though I can't find my own way around here, thank you,” she says. “I trust you two shall survive without my chaperoning for a few minutes?” And with this she gets to her feet and in a matter of moment has left the room.

Silence suddenly hangs heavy between them, and Abigail, anxious not to let a sense of trepidation destroy the newly won familiarity between them, says the first thing that comes to her mind: “Isn't it queer how often myths and tales depict women as evil and scheming, as cunning temptresses, causing the downfall of righteous men, when in the real life, it is so often the other way around and so many good women are ruined by the deeds of bad men.”

Another frown is ghosting over Billy's face, not the usual thoughtfulness but something else, like hurt or denial, and it does take a heartbeat or two for Abigail to grasp the cause.

“Oh, I didn't mean to offend you,” she adds hastily. “I didn't want to imply you or the captain or anyone on this ship. You've all been nothing but courteous towards me, but...”

“Did Lowe's men hurt you?” The question sounds more like a growl than a civilised inquiry. “Or Vane's? If they put a finger on you, I swear I will--”

“Oh no, it's not as you think,” Abigail is quick to interject. “They didn't harm a hair on my head, but others were not so lucky, and... I've come to be distrustful of men in general,” she confesses.

“I would never hurt you,” Billy says with so much sincerity in his sky-blue eyes, Abigail can't even imagine doubting his word. “Nor would I ever let anyone hurt you.” On an impulse grasps her hand in his own, which is warm and rough and reverent, and Abigail clutches at it, holds it fast, even when he realises his audacity and tries to pull back.

“I know you wouldn't,” Abigail breathes, and then she gives in to temptation and leans forward to press her lips to his mouth, which is such an outrageous conduct for a lady, it takes them both by surprise. It's only when Abigail makes no move to withdraw that he yields to the demand of her lips and opens his mouth to allow her to explore further. He is, for lack of a better word, polite in the way he responds to her kiss, gentle and careful to just mirror her affection, not be brash or presumptuous. He just takes what he is given, and returns every touch, every caress with the greatest respect. 

A part of Abigail is elated at the demonstration of meekness, but another part is disappointed. She had hoped for unbridled passion, for more eagerness. She wishes to test his patience, his strength, feel his resistance that would make his surrender – for ultimately he must submit to her, how could he not? – so much sweeter. He said he wouldn't hurt her, but she in turn has made no such promise, and she bites, experimentally. Not too hard, but hard enough to sting.

She can feel the impulse running through Billy's body, the instant reaction to push her away, feels Billy put an stop to it. But even when he's regained full control over his body, some of the tension remains, lingers, and it's just what she wanted. She sighs happily, her left hand braced against the firm muscle of his chest, her right touching his cheek, gently. And then she bites again, harder this time, and Billy jerks, but he's prepared for it now, and after the initial shock he just groans and yields, allows her to worry at this lower lip with her teeth until she can taste the iron tang of blood.

A low chuckle snaps her out of her rapture. Lady Hamilton has finally returned with two bottles of wine and is observing the situation with amused interest. “Oh, don't stop on my account,” she says when they start and break apart. “It's lovely to watch, truly. But look, Abigail, you made the poor boy bleed.” She sits down next to them, leans over and touches Billy's lip, which is swollen and indeed bleeding. He flinches away, just a fraction, and Lady Hamilton tuts with mild displeasure, and Abigail, on the spur of the moment, strokes his shoulder and back, reassuring, much like one would soothe a nervous horse, so he will still and patiently endure whatever is in store for him. 

“Do you mind?” Lady Hamilton asks her – not Billy – and Abigail just shakes her head, without even wondering how on earth this all can feel so completely natural. Why after all shouldn't she share her pleasure with Miranda, who's been herself so generous in that regard? 

Lady Hamilton places a hand on Billy's thigh and leans forward. His eyes dart towards Abigail and back to Miranda. Judging from his frown he doesn't know what to think of the situation, but when none of the women as much as bats an eye, he apparently decides to play along. He gropes for Abigail's hand, and once he has it in his, his face grows serene, and he closes his eyes in anticipation before Miranda's lips have even touched his own.

Her kiss is so much gentler than Abigail's, perhaps more accomplished too, and Billy melts into it, but he also doesn't let go of Abigail's hand for one second, quite the opposite, he holds on to her as though for dear life, and once Lady Hamilton pulls back and he opens his eyes, Abigail is the first thing he looks at. There is a dreamy expression in his eyes, and Abigail is inclined not to waste any time and kiss him again.

“Thank you,” Miranda says with a satisfied smile – whether she means Billy, or Abigail, or both remains undisclosed – and sits back to watch them both thoughtfully. “Now what do we do?” she muses. “I'm afraid I can't forgo my duty as a chaperone. I can hardly leave you two to your own devices. As far as we may be able bend the rules of decency, it's not for us to break them. Abigail must be delivered whole, unscathed, to her father. Perhaps not pure, but intact in the way society expects.”

Abigail's skin burns at the thought of what this might imply. She looks at Billy, whose expression is one of utter confusion again. When he notices her questioning gaze, he smiles and squeezes her hand in reassurance.

“Ah, I think I know, how we shall proceed,” Lady Hamilton announces after another moment of silent pondering. She rearranges herself into a new position, her back propped against the cabin wall, legs bent and feet set apart. She pulls up a cushion before her. “Come here, Abigail,” she says, patting it in invitation, and Abigail, somewhat reluctantly, lets go of Billy and crawls over to her, to settle on the designated spot. Miranda takes her face into her hands and places a soft, sweet kiss on Abigail's mouth before she has her sit with her back against Miranda's chest, facing Billy. She wraps her arms around Abigail and pulls her back into an embrace that is all soft and reassuring and every semblance of nervousness, Abigail might have felt, vanishes in an instant.

“How well versed are you in this business, Billy?” Lady Hamilton asks while she strokes Abigail's neck absent-mindedly. 

Billy shrugs. “Well enough, I guess. It's not as if I'm a virgin, if that's what you're implying.”

“I wouldn't have dreamed of making the assumption. Most men are just about able to fulfil their own desires, even if, in the majority of cases, no one else's. No, what I meant to ask was: do you know how to pleasure a lady? Preferably with your mouth.” 

At this Billy's face changes. He's not blushing or frowning or displaying any other sentiment, Abigail would have expected of him, but he smiles, and it's not a smile she would have thought him capable of either. It's more a sardonic smirk reminiscent of Flint than an innocent grin, there are teeth in it and something like lewdness and also pride and he says: “Do you want me to give you a demonstration of my skills, Ma'am?”

Abigail, encouraged by quite a few glasses of wine, stretches out her leg and awards him a playful kick against the thigh with her bare foot. “Cheeky,” she says and Billy smiles, more cheerfully this time, claps his right hand over his heart and bows a little in mock remorse. “Pardon, my lady, I was just trying to be helpful.”

“We shall graciously forgive you then,” Abigail giggles.

“As long as you live up to your word regarding your skills,” Miranda adds, more sternly, and instantaneously the atmosphere changes, the playful mood evaporating quickly as Billy crawls closer and to Abigail's surprise doesn't duck his head to kiss her, but leans in to put his lips to Miranda's first. His hand tangles itself into her hair, not gently at all, and he pulls her into a kiss so insolent and demanding, it has them both gasping for air within moments. 

“I think I would enjoy teaching you some manners, boy,” Miranda says afterwards, slightly breathless, but Billy just grins and reverts his attention to Abigail whom he treats much more reverently. There is no challenge in his kiss, just tenderness when he brushes his lips against hers, dry and slightly chapped, and she opens her mouth eagerly to taste him, salt and iron and wine. His tongue slides against hers, lazy and unhurried. He is indeed quite skilled at this, not entirely in the way Lady Hamilton is, but it takes little effort to kindle the same want inside her that tugs and pulls as if to tear her apart. The longer he kisses her, the more ravenous her hunger grows, and when he finally breaks away, Abigail feels like starving. Her insides are raw with need, and she would clutch at Billy, desperately, if only Lady Hamilton allowed it. But she holds her still, gently but determinately, stroking her arms, while Billy crouches lower. 

He touches her left foot first, such a feathery caress it makes her start. He waits patiently until she's regained control over her leg, then lifts the foot to his mouth and presses his lips to her sole, into the arch, just where the skin is the most sensitive. It tickles and Abigail jerks again, but Billy has anticipated the reaction and holds her foot still with ease. The next time he touches his mouth to her foot, he lets his tongue slide against that spot, causing Abigail not only to squirm but to squeak a little.

“Shhh, quiet, love,” whispers Lady Hamilton, pressing a soothing kiss to Abigail's temple where the first dampness of sweat is gathering, while Billy continues the worship of her foot.

It's such a queer sensation to be touched like this, kissed in such a strange place, but after a while, Abigail gets used to it. Billy repeats the treatment with her other foot, then trails kisses over her ankles up her calves, pushing her skirts up in the progress. He eventually comes to lie on his stomach, his head between her legs. Excitement is fluttering in her belly when he reaches the insides of her thigh and fastens his mouth to the tender skin, kissing and nipping at the flesh. It burns, aches in the most delightful way and she can't wait for his mouth to travel even higher, and yet there is nothing in the world she dreads more. For being touched _there_ , and by a woman at that, is one thing, but to have a man's mouth-- Abigail can scarcely finish the train of thought. The air in the cabin seems so sparse of a sudden, it's flickering before her eyes, shimmering like a mirage.

“Breathe, Abigail,” Lady Hamilton reminds her, and Abigail obeys, sucks air into her lungs that feels as though on fire while Billy waits for her to catch her breath. 

He watches her, out of these bright blue eyes, while the lantern light paints his face in strange patterns, half angel, half demon. Lucifer used to be a favourite son, she thinks, striking and fair, with a tongue so sweet...

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Do you want me to stop?” His hands rest on her thighs in a possessive sprawl, mooring her to to him, so even an ocean of pleasure couldn't carry her away.

“I could not bear it, if you did,” Abigail declares. It must be the truth, for this already feel like she pictures dying – her skin is feverish, while at the same time she's shivering, the legs tremble, her pulse races, but worst is the ache hat her very core, a void that throbs and throbs, mindless, greedy.

She barely registers how Billy works his way through the last barriers of too many skirts and ruffles, she's too lost in the kisses, Lady Hamilton places on her lips, but then at last he's succeeded in removing every last layer. Even though she now lies bare before him, exposed to his gaze and touch, and he spreads her open, fingers resting against her groin, inches from her sex, she doesn't feel ashamed, only desperate. But Billy pauses, looks up as if to ask for permission, and it's Lady Hamilton who grants it. “Go on, _boy_ , show us what you can do.”

And there is it again, Billy's wicked grin. 

Abigail only catches a glimpse of it, for he quickly lowers his head and brushes his lips against the softness of her flesh, in the same, chaste manner as their first kiss. A strangled moan escapes her, and he responds with a hum, low and smug against her most intimate parts, and it runs through her like the roll of thunder. 

Miranda catches her lips in another kiss, deep this time and passionate, just as Billy opens his mouth and runs his tongue through her folds, just there, where the wetness seeps from her like morning dew. He licks at her, slow, thorough, patient, until she whines with frustration, because he never lingers quite where she wants him to.

It's only when he deems her satisfyingly wet, that he pays her clit the attention it deserves. He laps at it with small, nearly harsh licks, and then when she thinks she's about to come apart under him already, he slides a finger inside her, just one long, thick finger, and the sensation is just too marvellous. A violent tremor runs through her, and his hand stills at once.

“Not yet,” Lady Hamilton whispers, her nails digging painfully into Abigail's arm, and Billy pauses too, he only keeps his finger inside her, its feel and stretch so glorious, she wants to beg for more, but all that falls from her lips are broken moans and breathless sighs. They wait until she's regained the ability to plead at least, before Miranda kisses her again and Billy returns to his too slow, too tender licks, which are clearly meant to drive her mad. But then he also begins to move his finger inside her, rubs the pad of his finger over a spot that must have been designed for this very purpose, because it feels so good and so right, he soon has her shaking and trembling, hovering at the brink of climax.

The world is clouded to her lust-muddled mind, she barely notices Miranda's hand sneaking under her corset until she's found the hardened nub of her nipple and pinches it gently. Abigail already overwrought nerves catch fire instantly, and then Billy, sensing how close she is, ceases his teasing and presses his tongue against her clit, hard. The extra stimulation is simply too much – something inside Abigail is strung to breaking point, the tension mounting and mounting for what seems an eternity, and then, at last, it snaps. She is torn apart by near-violent spasm that leave her so raw and tender, she struggles against Billy's and Miranda's hold on her, to be rid of every touch and stimulus, and reluctantly they let her go. 

It takes a couple of minutes until she's caught her breath. 

Miranda is the first to kiss her. With gentle fingers she tilts Abigail's head to capture her lips with hers, and her kiss is so sweet, Abigail knows she is safe and loved and all is good. 

When Miranda has had her fill of her, Abigail seeks Billy's gaze. He's assumed a crouching position, and is watching them with a quizzical expression, apparently unsure if he is dismissed or expected to stay. And what a sight he is! Slightly flushed, his lips still shining with what must be Abigail's own juices. The sight tugs at her like an echo of her orgasm, and she reaches with both hands to clasp his face between them. He leans closer, obedient, and when their mouths touch, and she pushes her tongue into his mouth, he sighs with something that sounds like relief and despair at the same time.

Abigail can only guess how it must feel like, to have given so much pleasure and received so little in return. But they are not finished with him yet, are they? She darts a questioning glance at Lady Hamilton, who cuts the suspense short. “Abigail, be a dear and pour us all some more wine, while Billy takes off his shirt”, she states matter of factly, and both follow the order without further delay. 

Abigail, who still feels a bit dizzy, nearly spills the wine when Billy unceremoniously pulls his shirt over his head. She may not have browsed the library for salacious literature, she may not have any intimate knowledge of the obscene and the prurient, but she has seen statues of Ancient Greece and images, paintings of Michelangelo, engravings of Dürer, all sort of drawings that depict the male form and Billy's body is every bit as perfect as those works of art.

Lady Hamilton apparently agrees, she seems to be in extraordinarily good spirits when she accepts the wine glass from Abigail. “I do understand why you're so taken with him,” she says as she lets her gaze rake appreciatively over Billy's well-defined stomach muscles and the marvellous chest. “Even Apollo would turn green with envy at this sight.” Then her eyes travel deeper and catch at the bulge in his breeches. Abigail, who has followed her gaze, blushes. There are still aspects to the male form entirely shrouded in mystery.

Billy squirms slightly, uncomfortably, under the weight of their eyes – to Lady Hamilton's obvious amusement: “Now, Billy, don't be shy. Show us more of this magnificent body of yours. Certainly Abigail will find it most instructive.”

Indeed, Abigail moves a bit closer, when Billy unbuckles his belt and begins to fumble with the buttons of his breeches. “Allow me,” she says, gathering up all her courage to reach out and put her hands over his. They look so small in comparison, so delicate. But they are nimble. As soon as Billy withdraws his hands to clear the way for her, she sets to work, careful, well aware of the nervous tremble in Billy's stomach muscles whenever her fingertips brush against the hardness confined behind the fabric. She doesn't give into her curiosity and the urge to press her palm against it, acquaint herself with its shape and feel, but concentrates at her task until it is accomplished. Only then, when the garment, not longer held into place by belt and buttons, threatens to flap open on its own accord, does she spread her hand over the enticing bulge. 

It feels hot, even through the thick fabric, stiff and hard. It twitches in response to the pressure, and Billy bites his lip and groans, low in his throat, a sound that makes Abigail want to kiss him again, on her own terms, with as much fervour as she sees fit.

The organ once it is revealed is utterly queer in Abigail's eyes, not ugly, not at all, but she feels positively betrayed by Michelangelo's David and all the other depiction of male genitals. Either Billy is a giant among men in more than one regard or they have all downplayed the size of a cock considerably. 

Lady Hamilton must have read her mind because she laughs at Abigail's expression. “I do think I can guess what you're thinking, dear, and I can assure you everything here is in perfectly good order. It's a pretty tool for a pretty man, but not in the slightest oversized.” She reaches out and trails a finger over the ragged landscape of Billy's stomach, stopping just short of the golden curls of pubic hair, so close to where his cock strains for attention. “What a pity this encounter isn't entirely about my benefit,” she muses aloud. “I would love to have this gorgeous prick inside me, I bet it would be marvellous.” 

Billy swallows, hard, and so does Abigail. A finger, even as large and blunt as Billy's, is one thing, but the idea to have _that_ inside her seems utterly outrageous. How would it even fit? It's bound to tear her open, she thinks and remembers the rumours she heard, about the loss of virginity and the pain of a wedding night, that awful violation of the female body, a conquest to which in the morning the sheets ought to bear witness. But then she also thinks of Lady Hamilton straddling Captain Flint, of her sighs and moans, which most certainly weren't sounds of agony.

To see how it works, observe closely the mechanics of such a joining, would surely be most educational, and therefore not just to Lady Hamilton's benefit, as she claims, but there are other things, Abigail wants to learn about first, so many things indeed. With a pang of regret she realises how little time they have left until they'll reach Charles Town and she must go back to her life of chastity and boredom.

Lady Hamilton interrupts her glum thoughts. “Wouldn't you like to begin your exploration, Abigail?” she asks, withdrawing her hand from Billy's stomach.

He still half-kneels, half-crouches in front of them while the ladies haven chosen a more casual position. Lady Hamilton sits propped up against the wall, her legs crossed, and Abigail has settled down on a cushion next to her. The three of them aren't more than a scant arm length apart from each other, and all Abigail has to do to kiss Billy is to lean slightly forward. It doesn't matter that he is so much taller, she can reach his mouth comfortably like this.

“I must thank you for what you just did for me,” she whispers against his lips, so close, their mouths nearly touch, and he parts his lips for her, eagerly, but otherwise doesn't move an inch. He's offering himself up as an object of study, she realises, a toy, a plaything for her to practise her skills, and she thinks of the captain, what a sight he was, bound and blindfolded at Lady Hamilton's mercy. How she would love to tie Billy up, have him helpless, to do with him as she wills. Now that she's tasted the sweetness of pleasure inflicted upon her by not one but two lovers, the thrill of being touched without being able to touch in return, she longs to know how it is to give pleasure rather than receive it. 

“You were wonderful, Billy,” she murmurs, only a hair's breadth from his lips. It is true and she wants him to know it. “You made me feel so good,” she says. “I could not even have fancied how it would feel to be kissed _there_.” The memory invokes another tug of arousal in her belly, scarcely less keen than before. Abigail almost moans her next words: “Your mouth was so wonderful on me, as though it was made for the task, your tongue so sweet, and your finger... It fit me so perfectly, its stretch and feel, I prayed you'd never let go of me, always stay inside me--” She hears his breath catching at her confession, and it fills her with a peculiar sense of pride that she can do this to him without as much as a touch. “I would love to repay you in kind,” she croons. “Make you feel every bit as good as you made me feel.” She runs her fingers along the side of his neck, draws a line downwards, a caress that causes goosebumps to spring up on the sensitive skin. Their breath mingles, hot and damp, between them. “Will you show me how you want me to touch you?” Abigail asks.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Billy's voice is rough with desire. His hand gropes for hers, blindly, fingers strong and warm as they close around it, and he lifts it to his mouth, brushing his lips against her knuckles in worship, before he places her hand over his chest, just where the heart pounds against flesh and bone. She is studying his face while he covers her hand with his own, keeps it there, as though praying. How angelic he looks with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, how desperate he is to be kissed. She doesn't avert her eyes from his expression while she acquaints herself to the feel of firm muscle under her finger tips, the smooth, heated skin, the sparse blond hair. His whole frame trembles, scarcely noticeable, from the effort to keep still, to be good for her, and Abigail finds she can't defer kissing him any longer. 

She closes the distance between them, nips at his lower lip, sucks it into her mouth, worries at it with her teeth. He still tastes like her, the sweet saltiness of her essence so strange and yet so enticing, she's determined to lick every last bit of it from his mouth. But she's taking her time, makes sure there are no traces left on his upper lip either, before she deepens the kiss. It's only when she has him groan with frustration, that she slides her tongue against his, briefly, playfully at first, then more passionate, a contact that has her insides tingle and heat with renewed desire. 

Billy's heart is racing beneath her hand, but there is something else that's rousing her interest – the slightly peaked bud of a nipple pressing against her palm. Is it possible he gains the same pleasure from the stimulation of a nipple as she does? Experimentally she adds more weight to her hand, rubbing it over the sensitive skin until she feels the small bud hardening further under her touch and Billy gasps, just a little, though enough to conclude that he enjoys what she's doing. 

Nonetheless he finally seems to have summoned the courage to guide her hand lower. Gently, gingerly he steers it over the plane of his stomach, to the patch of coarse dark-golden curls, and then he wraps her fingers around the length of his cock, and Abigail's heart misses a beat.

So this is what it feels like, she thinks. It's not at all what she has expected. She couldn't say what she'd imagined, to be afraid maybe, or ashamed, mortified. But all she experiences is the slightest flutter of nerves as Billy closes her hand around this strange, swollen flesh. It is silky to the touch, hard, yet not unpliable, not like iron or steel or wood, but entirely different. She gives it a tentative squeeze and has Billy nearly collapse before her. A sound escapes him that sounds like a sob, so raw and desperate she is inclined to withdraw her hand, but he tightens his grip around her fingers.

“Please don't let go,” he gasps. “I just need a moment.”

They lean into one another while Billy catches his breath and Abigail is getting used to the cock in her hand, to its weight and shape, its heat and silkiness. It seems so tame and vulnerable, it's hard to believe it can be used as a weapon, the means to hurt and humiliate. Abigail still can't imagine how it could possibly fit inside her, though now the idea doesn't only wake an awful sense of dread but also a sort of wicked curiosity. 

“What next?” she asks when Billy seems to have regained sufficient control over his breathing.

“You touch me like this.” He guides her hand, moving it slowly up and down over his cock, lazy strokes from root to tip and she quickly picks up on the rhythm, so Billy's finger just rest on hers, while she decides about pace and pressure.

“Just like that,” Billy breathes, and then he says nothing for a while, just draws breath after ragged breath while she keeps stroking, marvelling at the way the cock seems to grow even larger in her hand, until she notices the liquid leaking from the tip. She can't resist the temptation to dip her finger into it, smear it across the pink, smooth head of the cock with her thumb, try pushing it back into that cute little hole it comes from, and Billy, poor Billy gasps, “Oh God, Abigail!” and soon after he goes all rigid, and even more wetness is spilling from him in frantic spurts. She holds him through his climax, loosening her grip on his cock gradually as she remembers the discomfort of too much friction. It feels as though he comes apart in her arms, all that strength and vigour crumbling away in trembles and shudders, until finally he slumps against her, utterly spent, thus completing the last act of their drama.

It's only then that Abigail remembers her whereabouts, the ship, the cabin, Lady Hamilton. She feels the weight of her gaze on her, and her approval, she assumes, the proud, affectionate warmth she has bestowed on her since their first meeting, and she longs for her embrace now, and the sweetness of her kisses. But when she looks up, she realises another pair of eyes is resting upon her.  
Just a couple of paces away the dark figure of the captain is looming over them, much like a vengeful djinn recently escaped from his prison, gazing at the spectacle before him with an unreadable expression on his handsome features.

__

**Author's Note:**

> And then they got lost in a time anomaly in the Bermuda Triangle for a bit and had even more gratuitous sex and in the end it all turned into a strange Flying Dutchman-ish story of a crew damned to sail the seven seas while screwing like a bunch of adorable little bunnies. ~ fin
> 
> No, but seriously. I've no idea how long the trip was supposed to take? I guess four to five days would be realistic for a sailing ship at the time? (I may have suspended a lot of narrative plausibility and logic, but having a credible time frame when it comes to sailing is obviously important for this fic. :P)


End file.
